In August of 2008, I gave birth to my first child. I was a 28-year-old silly heart who had spent the majority the decade as a professional college student. I was great at schooling and considered an all around good girl by most – I attended lectures, aced the tests and knew when to flash an engaged smile at the teacher.
After graduating with a Master in Teaching degree in 2007, I abruptly moved across the country to be closer to a part-time lover and a new best friend. I packed up my extensive shoe collection, some clothes and my bike and lived off of a credit card with a $30K limit. I remember thinking I would figure out debt management when I was older and wiser.
I was quickly hired to teach Kindergarten in a crumbling inner city public school. They offered me $15/hour to instruct 32 babies in a tiny, dirty classroom. Within the first week, one of my 5-year-old students had taken the metal scissors off my desk to his throat and said, “What are you gonna fucking do about it?” I had no freaking idea other than to talk him down like I would to a person standing on the rail of a bridge. When I went home that day, I poured myself a huge class of wine and cried for an hour balled up on the couch.
I was a small town girl in a lonely world experimenting, making messes, and at times, totally adrift. And I was scared, like really, really scared, most of the time. My greatest fear – failing. Failing at this new chapter of my life after schooling.
An ex-boyfriend showed up on my doorstep a month or two after I started teaching. It was comforting to see his sweet, round face all the way from Reno. He was a safety blanket to me, and I happily wrapped myself in. We hung out like old times attending hip hop shows, checking out museums, and bopping around the city for drinks. I didn’t know we would make a kid together as the result of his stay over. In fact, I had visited Planned Parenthood to avoid such creation.
When I came home for Thanksgiving, I learned during a routine doctor’s visit that I would become a mom. I had done everything in my power to avoid this moment, but it found me. After driving home in a stupor, I spent the remainder of that day with my mother on the porch, processing this breaking news, with her smoking 300 cigarettes, and me pacing around like a caged wildcat.
My fairly scripted existence was now a loose game of improv. Looking into the eyes of my concerned mother, I realized this was the first moment of complete authenticity we had shared in our relationship. This was the real deal.
I knew I had to take the helm of my life and steer into the storm of the totally unknown. But unlike those fearless captains standing on deck while waves washed over their heads, I had boarded this ship to take a peek and while I was down below, it left port. Regardless, now I was out in the open ocean and had a lot to learn.
The first major step was to come clean with my parents about how much debt I was in. Like most 20 somethings, I wasn’t the most honest and forthcoming human being about how I was managing my existence. I wanted to appear like I had it all together. Like I took “adulting” seriously. That I was pretty perfect. I didn’t want the money my folks spent to get me through 10 years of higher education to be in vain. But in this moment, looking at myself in the mirror, there I was: knocked up and bankrupt. The definition of a failure. Damn.
I went into a phase of hermitting to cope – a withdrawal from the world because everything felt bright, sharp, and itchy. I was mortally embarrassed. I had to borrow money from my folks just to go bankrupt. I quit my teaching job and moved back home from with my tail between my legs. My ex boyfriend disappeared as quickly as he came. Like one of those grand retreat scenes in a war movie, I searched for a suitable rock to hide under, defeated and alone. And while sitting under there, I started digesting self-help books like a maniac.
